


Fulcrum

by UnbiddenRhythm



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, F/M, FF7's Pepper Potts, Final Fantasy VII Remake, Pining, Post-Sector 7 Plate Drop (Compilation of FFVII), Unresolved Romantic Tension, seriously who is she I want more of her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23657593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnbiddenRhythm/pseuds/UnbiddenRhythm
Summary: Reeve usually considered seeing her the best part of his day. This day, however, she entered lacking her usual luster. Grim lines etched her face. This day, she approached his desk stone faced, a thick folder clutched in her grasp."I've brought the damage assessment for Sector 7 you requested."
Relationships: Reeve Tuesti & Reeve Tuesti's Assistant, Reeve Tuesti/Reeve Tuesti's Assistant
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	Fulcrum

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a simple person. I see a handsome dark-haired inventor genius with a cute and competent redheaded assistant, I ship them.

" _Yes._ " The edge in his voice cut sharp yet Reeve made no effort to dull the effect. "Every reactor, _every_ pillar."

He tried to blink the tired blur from his eyes. He'd lost track of how many hours he'd gone without sleep. Sixty, if he had to pin it. Hours spent on endless phone calls, staff check-ins and maintenance reports—and that was _before_ his superiors decided to destroy a major part of the city. Two days of doing damage control and clean up, for what? The President and Heidegger to just blow it all up?

Worse still, their insanity didn't solve the immediate problem at hand. The terrorists _escaped_ , and Reeve didn't give a damn how many times Heidegger hawed that dropping the plate quashed a contingent of the cell.

Taking the lives of a few extremists also didn't solve the problem of now having _two_ non-functioning reactors, which meant the city needed to draw on the emergency reserves to maintain power until Reactor 5 could be rebuilt. _If_ it could be rebuilt. Which was nothing to say for how long it could possibly take. Reeve called in several favors to just get the help he needed to assist in cleaning up Heidegger's mess. It was lacking. Few former employees wanted to return.

(Not that he could blame them. Despite reactor work being one of the most dangerous jobs in the company, Reeve's fund for staff pensions and medical insurance evaporated when the President signed off on the new fiscal budget, sweeping those moneys into Scarlet's bloody ledger.)

In the meantime, Reeve ordered the immediate ramp up of production from the remaining reactors among the staff still on-site and able to assist. And increased security. The city couldn't afford another reactor failure—it would be catastrophic for everyone topside and bottom.

"Like I said," Reeve fumed, "a _full_ inspection. There's no telling what kind of damage there may be."

He barely registered the hasty assurance of the Sector 3 lead engineer to follow through with the directive. Instead, Reeve's attention strayed to the opening door.

Reeve usually considered seeing her the best part of his day. This day, however, she entered lacking her usual luster. Grim lines etched her face. In their normal routine, he would acknowledge her with a nod and sometimes even a smile (courage permitting). This day, she approached his desk stone faced, a thick folder clutched in her grasp. She stopped behind his chair as he finished his call.

"If you see anything out of the ordinary I want to know." Hanging up, he pocketed his phone, but did not bring himself to turn toward her yet. Instead, the heaviness on his chest weighed him down and he sighed, clutching his head in his hand.

"Sorry to bother you, sir…" Reeve hated that she sounded so apologetic, so unaware just how grateful he was just to see her. As if her presence wasn't the one of his best encouragements to drag himself from bed and into his office, most days.

"No, it's fine," he turned to face her, doing his best to sound cordial rather than curt. He studied her copper hair, her freckled cheeks, the worried lines etched in her expression as she frowned. She did not believe his hollow words. _Nothing_ was fine.

"I've brought the damage assessment for Sector 7 you requested." She handed him the folder, and his heart dropped as he felt the weight of it. He didn't need to look to know it would be devastating.

"Sir…perhaps you should try and get some sleep."

Reeve didn't want to meet her eyes, and so turned away. She knew full well he struggled to resist her gentle chiding reminders to rest and eat. She'd worked with him long enough to know how to wear down his resolve, to successfully convince him to at least sprawl out on the couch and close his eyes while she edited his latest draft.

"No, not yet."

Reeve managed the plates. This was his responsibility. And _he_ would be sitting at the President's table in the three hours. Still enough time to make things right. "I need to finish preparing my draft of the reconstruction plan _before_ tonight's board meeting."

In his periphery he spied her start to protest, but then she seemed to think better of it, and stayed silent.

He felt worse. He never liked making any of his staff feel powerless, like they had no say. Least of all her, the one he liked and trusted best. Another heavy sigh escaped him, his chest still feeling leaden.

How could he have failed so horribly, to not convince Shinra that the lives of 50,000 mattered more than smoking out a small bloc of terrorists?

…How could Cait Sith fail to arrive in time to stop the Turks from hitting the drop-switch? He was sure he could make it…

"Whatever reasons they might've had, destroying an entire sector is…" his tongue felt sour from the distasteful memory, "it's beyond the pale."

" _Director,"_ she gasped, Reeve spun toward her with alarm. "I would strongly advise you _not_ to say such things outside of this room," she said, gray eyes wide with worry. He turned from her.

"Don't I know it," he muttered, shaking his head. His protest in the President's suite was perhaps his most brazen ever, and yet it made no difference. Speaking brazenly now would result in a visit from the Department of Administrative Research—on Tseng's terms, which Reeve knew would not be favorable.

This silent reckoning settled thick in the air, until she chanced to break it. "Well, if you won't sleep," she said, words careful, "then perhaps I can help you finish your draft?" Reeve shook his head, determined to not look back at her so as to not break his resolve.

"It's best I tackle it. But I always appreciate your revisions, once I'm finished with the first pass."

"At least tell me you'll eat something." She switched gears even daring to lean over his keyboard monitor, a gambit successful at forcing him to look back at her.

Her gray eyes met his, gaze insistent. Sometimes, he wondered...he weren’t her manager…

He could lose himself looking into those eyes.

This day, though, he noticed just how exhausted they were. She was. Days were becoming longer, taking greater tolls, and yet she never relented in racing to his side with the latest figures he requested, or to refresh his favorite bottle of green tea (always unprompted—she just had a knack for knowing).

She quirked her head, "Well? What can I get for you?"

Reeve nearly smiled in spite of himself and the circumstances. "That's not necessary. I don't want to trouble you, and you know the cafeteria's a nightmare right now. I'll be fine."

She shook her head. "You need to eat." Her lips hardened into a firm expression, and Reeve knew this was her last tactic. If he refused her now she would drop it - and would walk away, slightly sullen, shoulders slumped. And the best part of his day would be tarred by the memory of how he made her feel.

He didn’t demure, and she claimed victory. “I'll whip up some peanut butter and jam 'wiches." She ignored his now perfunctory protest by looking over to the near-empty bottle on his desk. "And bring more tea," she winked.

Reeve did his best to ignore the warm flush creeping up his neck. "You _do_ make the best sandwiches."

"Quite right, sir." She turned proudly, hair whipping behind her. He watched as she marched away with quick steps, as if worried he would change his mind. But she turned in the doorway. "I'll be back in a bit." She looked concerned once more. "It wouldn't hurt to get some rest while I'm gone. Just for a few minutes."

"You really are insistent."

"Even a cat nap, sir," she pressed. "I hear they do wonders."

He smiled for the first time in days. "All right. A cat nap. Will that satisfy?"

She smiled back, expression alight. "Very much so, _Director_." Only she could say his title in that way, that way that made him feel quite glad he was already sitting because his legs felt weaker than usual.

As she closed the door behind her, Reeve indulged himself to close his eyes for a brief moment. He lingered in the fleeting warmth she sparked, and he committed to burning the feeling into memory.

And then he refocused. The board meeting was hours away.

Time to work.

* * *

Reeve seethed.

He couldn't remember a board meeting so disastrous. Granted, they were usually terrible, but this time…

He actually _shouted_ at the President. Marching behind Shinra the length of the hallway, he outright ignored the man's directive to "Stop bothering me with this shit, Reeve."

"But sir!" he protested, trying to come up with any excuse that would prompt Shinra to stop. "Sir, leaving the sector without any plan to salvage and rebuild threatens public health. Not to mention the threat to public relations!"

Nothing mattered. As soon as the President reached his office suite he strolled inside. He only cast a wayward glace behind at Reeve to say, "The only reason I keep you around is to manage my reactors. Otherwise, I’d fire your ass. Never forget it, Tuesti."

Then he slammed the door in Reeve's face.

Reeve marched angrily back to the 63rd floor, ignoring Scarlet and Heidegger's mocking faces as he passed. He bowled through at least two middle managers hoping to get his attention on some trivial matter or other, and he didn't stop until he reached his office.

He entered to a sight that extinguished his rage.

Laid upon the coffee table was another sandwich and bottle of tea, but this time there was also a spread of other snacks. She sat in one of the leather chairs, thumbing through a stack of folders, munching her own half-eaten sandwich.

She looked up as he approached, and took him in for a second before saying, "I see the board meeting is finished." He grunted then flung himself into the chair next to her, grabbing a bowl of popcorn she'd laid out. Neither of them made any further comment. There was no point in her asking how it went; she already knew. It went as all meetings did—with their well-researched reports being cast aside in favor the more eccentric directors' whims.

They sat in silence for a bit, him stress-eating the array she'd thoughtfully laid out, while she occasionally snacked and reviewed her reports.

"I yelled at the President," he finally broke the silence. She froze mid-bite, aghast.

"Sir, please tell me you _didn't_ …"

He shrugged and chewed more sandwich before saying, "Said he wanted to fire me, but needed me for the reactors. So, I'm still your boss, for now."

She sat stunned. "Well," she finally said after several moments, "I guess that's as good an excuse as any." She reached down to her feet into her purse, and pulled out two small bottles of amber liquid.

Reeve's eyes shot up in surprise. She wasn't usually the type to go so brazenly against policy…then again, what the hell mattered anymore. He grabbed her offering. "I need this today."

She smothered a laugh as she twisted her own open. "I _know_."

They clinked bottles. "To yelling at the President," she whispered, and they both laughed before sipping their drinks. Reeve let its warmth wash over him, settle into his bones. Damn, he was tired. But for the first time in several days, things were…mild. He felt so aware of her warmth next to him, sipping her own drink, contemplative.

She didn’t need to go to such lengths for him, but she did. He often wondered why. Wondered what they could be if she didn’t work for him. He wondered if she wondered about it, too. He drank again.

Then, from on top of the stack on the table, she pulled a folder and handed it to him, expression suddenly somber.

"So, I'll admit, it’s not fair of me to supply you alcohol and then hand you more work," she gave him a sheepish look as he took the file from her, confused. "But I figured you'd need the drink before you read this."

"Well, that makes me _not_ want to read it." When she didn't meet his eyes he felt his insides twist. What would make her so nervous?

He thumbed the file open, and cursed when he saw the contents. To her credit, she didn't react in any way to his rude language. In fact, she seemed to expect it.

"Mr. Raspberry?" He finally managed to choke out.

"His daughter was one of the individuals responsible for the bombings.”

Reeve cursed again and scanned the investigative report. There was a picture—a head-shot of a lovely woman with bright eyes. A woman he'd met before, grieving and confused. _Jessie_. _Jessie Raspberry_.

Reeve read to the end of the report. "Deceased."

"The plate.”

Reeve felt bile rise in his throat, made hot and violent by the liquor. So, here was Heidegger's sacrificial mog. The enemy that his city would soon castigate for his company’s sins.

Reeve remembered the Raspberry family all too well. Mako poisoning—an extreme case. The direct result of the man's work in the reactors. Reeve lobbied so hard to get him full medical insurance and better treatment, but like so many other times, he'd failed. Last time he saw Mr. Raspberry, it had been at the man’s house, where his wife and daughter were doing everything to care for him in his near-comatose state.

It seemed obvious to Reeve. A daughter driven to revenge against the company that wronged her father. _Jessie_. Reeve had failed her, and her father and family.

He could feel the heavy panic setting in on his chest, the air not filling in his lungs, but before he could drown in his anxiety, he felt a hand press against his shoulder, sliding down along his spine. "Breathe," he didn't hear so much as felt her words reverberate in his head, and he forced his eyes closed and inhaled, deep and slow, then slowly forced himself to look at the woman sitting next to him.

"I was worried about telling you," she admitted, tone rueful. "You already don't sleep as it is."

And like _hell_ he'd sleep tonight. He’d be lucky to get a few hours. Reeve took another deep, settling breath before saying, "I'm glad you told me."

She nodded, but didn't withdraw her hand from him. The silence settled again, heavier than before. He drained his drink, then spoke.

"They keep throwing people away," his voice felt raw and angry, and she startled. But Reeve continued. "They treat them like trash, dispose of them. When the people see Shin-Ra’s not doing anything to help the survivors of Sector 7, it will only get worse." He looked at Jessie Raspberry's photo. "There will only be more like her. People driven to destroy this company because it's destroyed them."

"Director," her voice had an edge to it. "Again, I strongly advise you not say anything like that outside of this room."

He cast her a bashful glance. "You aren't going to tell on me, are you?" He tried to smile, but he hardly had the energy. And she didn't seem in the mood for the joke.

"No," she breathed, "of course not, sir."

"Thank you. Will you help me?"

"Help you? With what?"

"I don't know yet." He looked at Jessie's photo once more before closing the folder. "But I know I have to do something."

"Reeve," the press of her hand felt warm and solid against his back, the way she said his name stirring emotions within him. "…I support you."

He met her gaze, and this time held it. Was he imagining her expression? If he’d had another bottle of liquid courage maybe he’d kiss her. But not tonight. She still looked exhausted. He didn't want to guess how he looked. Instead, he settled for, "And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably never sleep.”

“Probably.”

She humored him with a soft smile. "Which is very unwise and why you need me around, clearly. Perhaps a less cranky version of yourself won't yell at the President, hm?"

He snorted. "Now that I know he won't fire me, I can't guarantee that. In fact,” he loosened his tie, “maybe I'll make a habit out of it."

She rolled her eyes and began clearing the table, but smiled so warmly he regretted not kissing her earlier when he had a chance. "Sleep on that idea, sir."

And though he was sure he’d be too haunted to rest, Reeve couldn’t make it further than the couch in his office before sprawling and passing out. But he didn't sleep more than two hours before receiving Tseng's message:

_"The President is dead."_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Green Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222910) by [4ever_Rewritten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/4ever_Rewritten/pseuds/4ever_Rewritten)




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